Broncos are really damn good man…FUMBLE FUCK!!!!!!!!. I swear I was just about to write that they are back on track. Someone is fucking with me man.

So earlier today I checked up on my mum and I was told that there was some trouble with the customs. She was made to pay RM 8000 just to recover the damn package. Because there was money inside. Failing which she would be dragged to jail. She complied.

I honestly don’t know what I was suppose to do. There’s this thing about respecting local customs and laws. There’s this thing about not bitching to save your ass. I’ve been googling it using a variety of ways to explain away what just happened but it came down to zilch. The only thing I could possibly think of is the package being suspected of money laundering. I don’t want my mum in jail and since I don’t know what the hell the laws are over there, I don’t want to force anything to happen especially since she has already paid the fucking bribe.

Isn’t that tantamount to participating in corruption? Would the law still be on your side if you were forced to do so? Would the gallows have spared a certain Vietnamese man even if he had stated that if he didn’t become a drug mule, he would be murdered? That happened in another country though.

So because I’m just a nobody I did what any nobody does. I look for curses. But of course there exists that moral conflict. On top of my opposing vigilante justice. God, it’s frustrating to live in this world.

Anyway, while attempting to update my book of magic spells, I found something that’s a mix of numerology and bible magic. Add the numbers of your birthdate together, if the final number is double digit, add those together. That final number tallies with any one of the ten commandments. The sin you will have to struggle with for the rest of your life lies in that.

I’m a 6 and guess what the sin is? Across the board save for the Catholics, it is “Thou Shalt Not Murder”

Fancy that.

Incidentally, if I were Catholic, it would be “Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery”.

I’m still pissed off as ever but if the law is actually not on her side, what the hell can I do? Fly down to Malaysia and take a swing at that shithead? Sure.

Like plans:
God Hates Me is trashed. I’ve realized, no good plot. Plot is crap. Plot is mess. Plot is missing. Plot is ugly. Plot is… the reason why its been trashed.
1aDays was a bad idea. I did it every day up till the 11th and stopped. I will publish the fiction written during this as Brainmatter under Fiction soon.

However, I have written two short stories, edited a third. Will be published and also entered into a contest by the end of May.

Allright people, let’s get this over with.

So remember how BrownEyes wanted to get back together with me?

Well, he called me on Friday and asked if I wanted to come over and see a movie. I said yes. There are various reasons for this. Let me show you dem.

1. I’m a fucking idiot.
2. I’m a masochist.
3. I hoped at the very least I could get some sex out of it.
4. Blog fodder!
5. I wanted to see if he’d changed for the better. (HILARIOUS, right?)
6. I’m a fucking idiot.

Probably not the best reasons, but reasons nonetheless.

I told him I’d call him when I got out of the shower. When I called, instead of  him being at home (as he said he’d be), he’d walked to a nearby bar and was having a drink. He invited me to join him. I was not looking my best as I’d slicked my hair back into a bun and was definitely not dressed for a night on the town. But I decided to join him. For ONE drink.

One drink? Always turns into 5 or 6 or 42 drinks with BE. Stupid, stupid LRC.

He was incredibly inattentive to me the whole night, trying to be his usual center-of-attention self. I’m sure the look on my face said it all. To everyone ELSE, that is. Everyone with a fucking CLUE.

(Hint: BE does not belong to this elite club of Those Who Get It.)

Every time he’d ask me to go outside and smoke with him, he’d open the door for me and motion with his hand for me to go ahead. I would walk through, and EVERY. SINGLE. TIME he did this? He would stop and talk to someone else. Leaving me standing there by myself like a jackass.

EVERY.

SINGLE.

TIME.

THAT got annoying really fast. When I insisted that he go first, he’d say, “no you go ahead!” and then he would do the SAME. EXACT. THING.

Do you know how FRUSTRATING that was? It got old reeeeeally fast.

Aaaand the straw that broke the camel’s back? As if I weren’t turned off enough as it were?

While I was talking to one of his female friends (while he was inevitably making his rounds around the bar), she told me that he’d been telling people that HE was the one who broke it off with ME.

[record scratch]

Shut. The. Front. Door.

HELLLLLLLLLLLL NAW.

I was furious. So I did what any normal person would do. I made him buy me Huddle House at 2am and when he fell asleep on his recliner I dipped the fuck out of there and never looked back.

Speaking of BE, a few minutes ago I got a text from one of his friends, who, last time I saw him, I WAS with BE. But this had to be at least five or six months ago.

not going to [name of bar] tonight is ya?

What’s going on at [name of bar]?

well it’s just poker night but thought maybe you and [BE] might wanna go up there for a little while

Forehead? Meet desk.

I don’t date [BE].

oh for some reason i thought yall were. well if you wanna go, no [BE] that’s even betta

Is this my life? Seriously?

Did I just get a random ass text from BE’s friend asking if I wanted to bring BE and join him at the bar? And then when I said I wasn’t dating BE, did I also get HIT ON by BE’s friend?

Is the universe trying to give me the middle finger? Is it because I arranged all the stickers on the Rubik’s cube when I was little and tried to pass myself off as a genius? I APOLOGIZED FOR THAT A FEW YEARS AGO. LET IT GO, UNIVERSE.

And to end on a more somber note, I don’t see myself getting over New York anytime soon. I had (still have) it bad for that boy. New developments have been brought to light about the situation and I feel torn. Every day when I get home, and every morning when I wake up, I feel like I’m being punched in the face and given a wedgie simultaneously. A wedgie of sorrow.

I had to make the melodrama humorous somehow.

Something that grinds my gears to no end is when people ask you for directions and then debate you on your directions. If you’re so smart why the fuck did you ask me? It happens to me almost every god damned day.

Yesterday I had a Russian gentleman ask me for a bookstore. When I told him where the nearest Barnes & Nobles was he then debated me saying that there was supposed to be one on the block he was standing on. Or rather he was told there should be one on the street we were on. Obviously there was not a bookstore in sight. He was really not happy with my answer and I can’t just pull a bookstore out of my ass for his convenience. Sorry asshole.

Or the Japanese woman that asked me where 7th Ave. was from the intersection we were at. I explained to her where we were, which directions went north, south, east & west. Simply because it would give her a better understand of NYC. She still insisted on walking south instead of west.

It just makes no sense to me to ask directions if you are hellbent on not listening. It’s like getting a GPS system and then insisting it is wrong. Which is two parts funny and eight parts aggravating. It seems to be a problem for people to admit they are lost. Granted it is kind of making your self vulnerable and you have to hope that the person giving you directions isn’t sending you to the South Bronx or another equally bad area at any time of day. But sometimes you have to put your pride up your ass and deal with the fact that you have no idea where you are and adjust accordingly.

From here on out I am just going to tell people to get lost when they ask for directions.

From the book God Calling (www.twolisteners.org )

March 9 – Nothing Is Small

Nothing is small to God. In His sight a sparrow is of greater value than a palace, one kindly word of more importance than a statesman’s speech.

It is the Life in all that has value, and the quality of the life that determines the value. I came to give Eternal Life.

“And they had a few small fishes: and he blessed…they took up
 of the broken meat that was left seven baskets. And they that had
 eaten were about four thousand.” – Mark 8:7-9

—-

“It is the Life in all that has value, and the quality of the life that determines the value. I came to give Eternal Life.”

if you think that you life is not worth living, if you think that God doesn’t care about you, please read the previous line again.

he wants to give you eternal life, see how valuable you are ?

Things just go from bad to worse, don’t they?

Sigh.

I kinda went on a roller coaster of emotions on V Day. I woke up feeling really happy and positive, because I just felt like I needed to be, so I forced it upon myself. I decided to go shopping because I hadn’t bought myself anything in a while and I needed some new clothes.

I guess I wasn’t feeling it because I didn’t buy a single. damned. thing.

That is just wrong.

So I got some cookies and took them over to Andy’s and hung out with him for a while. I was feeling down at this point about my failed shopping attempt and no contact yet from New York. So I went from really happy to really blah and kinda sad. But I tried not to let it get to me too badly. You’re only as happy as you allow yourself to be, or some bullshit like that.

When I got home, I found a cute postcard from New York in my mailbox. It was very him. Not mushy-gushy, but he made a cute pun with my last name and it did arrive on the right date, so props for that. I also got a “happy valentines” text, which is a vast departure from the funny stuff he usually sends me. I called him later and we talked for about 30 minutes, and that was that.

After talking to him and feeling better in general about the situation, my mood lifted. I sang to my dogs and played my karaoke game. Don’t judge. I was on fire with that shit. I ended up having a really good time by my damned self. Then Sandra texted me to come up to the bar.

I decided, why the hell not.

And, uh, BrownEyes was there.

Shit.

Well, I knew I was going to have to see him eventually. So I tried to make it as painless as possible.

“Hey, how have you been?”
“Good, and you?”
“Good.”
(hug)
“It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”

And that was that. Like pulling off a band-aid. Now that it’s over with, I feel better.

New York got back home on Monday night. Yay, right? Enh. We’ll see. He was ultra tired from his trip so he went straight home to bed, which I get. I don’t blame him for that at all.

But yesterday? I had the day from hell. Boss lady was on a rampage and was really bitchy to me and my co-worker. I ended up having to work a bit late, and you know the only thing on my mind was getting out of there to see New York, (who earlier had gone by my house to pick up the stack of mail I’d obediently retrieved from his mailbox, like a fucking Labrador).

He told me to call him when I got off work, so I did. I told him about my crappy day at work, and he listened until I was done. He got distracted trying to find a picture on his computer, so he told me to call him when I got home.

I was really stressed out from my effed up day at work, and at that moment, heaven to me would have been having dinner and wine with NY, catching up on things, and not having to worry about work, or anything else for that matter. At least for the night.

So I gave him some time, and I called back. No answer. Whatever. He called back like an hour later. He’d been taking a nap. Fine.

NY: [Friend] wanted me to go with him to the movies. It starts in ten minutes.
LRC: Are you gonna go?
NY: Yeah.
LRC: Cool.
NY: I mean, I think I’m gonna go.
LRC: Huh?
NY: I don’t know. I’m hungry.
LRC: So you either want food or a movie?
NY: Yeah.
LRC: And you want someone to make the decision for you?
NY: Ha. Yeah.
LRC: Well, I’m hungry . . .
(I don’t remember the details of the conversation at this point. I was very confused indeed. NY had just woken up from a nap and was therefore a bit disoriented. Somehow we got back on the topic of going to the movie.)
NY: I don’t think I’m gonna go to the movie. I only have two dollars in my wallet.
LRC: Yeah, I have zero dollars in my wallet.
NY: Well, let me text [Friend] and tell him I’m not going to the movie. I’ll call you later.

UGH. I should have just told him, “TAKE ME OUT TO DINNER, YOU HALF WIT,” but I don’t think I should have had to do that. It’s kinda rude to like, demand that someone take you out to eat. Highly annoyed at this point. Giving up on dinner plans, I munched some Ruffles potato chips and scowled.

I finally heard back from him at 9pm.

“Fnd enuf coin 4 a sandwich!”

Are. You. Fucking. Serious?

I texted him back, “You ain’t eat yet?” <— please ignore my horrible grammar here. This is my attempt at making fun of the rednecks I converse with on a daily basis. Yes, people talk like that here. It’s frightening.

He texted back: “Jst”

What the fuck does that even mean?

He is just not even trying at this point.

LRC: huh
NY: huh?

I was beyond pissed. He obviously wanted me to do all the work here, and it’s apparent that I’m not a priority in his life. I decided to go to bed after that (this was around 9:45).

He called me at about 10:10, but I was in the bed and didn’t hear the phone ring.

I can’t believe this shit.

We haven’t seen each other for three weeks and he’s not knocking down my door to see me? He wants his mail and a sandwich.

I hope he went to bed hungry.

I’m trying to stay positive through all this crap I’m going through right now. Really, I am. I even wrote a post called “Today was a good day,” with a bulleted list of why that particular day (Wednesday) was so great.

And WordPress promptly ate it.

EFF YOU, WORDPRESS.

Sigh.

I’m kinda glad my post got eated, though. Because a few hours after I wrote it (about the random comment from a stranger that made my day, the fact that I was becoming okay with Murray’s new relationship status, and the fact that I’d decided to make cupcakes for New York for Valentine’s Day so that way if he didn’t actually get me anything for VD, it wouldn’t be as awkward as if I had actually gone out and bought him something), I had a nice little conversation with NY that pretty much negated my wonderful mood.

Basically, he’s not going to be home for Valentine’s Day.

Hear that sound? That’s the sound of me banging my head against the wall. Repeatedly.

Why can’t I just find a guy who makes a fucking effort? I am worth more than this bullshit. I know Valentine’s Day is a stupid holiday that doesn’t matter, but I am a girl, and he would have to be either dumb or apathetic to ignore the fact that his not being home for Valentine’s Day (when he very well could be) = not good.

Hint: he’s definitely not dumb.

Just, shit.

So he won’t be getting any cupcakes from me. Obviously. Or anything else for that matter.

He hasn’t mentioned That Holiday at ALL. For someone who loves cheesy holiday crap, this is unlike him.

The only thing that would make this acceptable to me would be him showing up on my doorstep tomorrow to surprise me. Anything short of that just isn’t going to cut it.

Apparently I was wrong in thinking that we were more than just friends. We do boyfriend and girlfriend stuff together. Why would this be any exception?

If he sends me some lame cryptic text on VD and that’s all I get? I am going to LOSE. MY. SHIT.

I need to talk to him. Not on the phone. DEFINITELY not via text or e-mail. I need to speak to him face to face and find out exactly what the hell this is that we’re doing. His not being here is really wearing me down. It’s like, we’re “together,” but we’re not. I feel like I’m just wasting time.

His arrival is in the homestretch, but he still hasn’t given me an exact day. Until then I’m just going to distract myself with whatever friends I can round up and try not to think about what the eff is going on with my “love life.” I have to pull myself out of this funk. My unhappiness right now can only be fixed by yours truly. And I’ve got to try.

I have GOT. To. Try.

Well, it’s “Facebook Official.”

Murray is now in a relationship.

Murray, the guy I dated for three years, bought a house with, and thought I was going to marry.

Before the breakup last May, he’d grown complacent, and felt “safe.” We weren’t sleeping together anymore and he spent all his time outside, working in the yard. I knew he wasn’t the one for me when I enjoyed my alone time immensely more than the time we spent together.

But it still hurts.

Not only because, well, he’s my Murray. Or he was. And there will always be a part of me that misses him like crazy.

Also? It’s just a big “fuck you” from the dating gods that Murray, who has NO GAME whatsoever, has managed to land himself a girlfriend, and I can’t even get a guy to admit we are more than friends.

When I woke up Sunday morning after a Super Swell Saturday Night of crying myself to sleep because all of my friends were ignoring me and here I was crawling into bed at 9:00 p.m. because I’d rather sleep than be lonely (melodrama. I has it), I went on a routine E-Mail/Google Reader/Facebook check and was bitch slapped with the news that Murray had finally moved on.

And I had to find out via that God Damned Social Networking Site Which Shall Not Be Named From This Point Forward.

What makes it worse is that I know the girl. We were very good friends growing up. BLARGH.

And to top it off, she posted pictures of them all over her profile, looking all happy and shit. And in those pictures, posing with the happy couple, were some of my best friends.

I feel replaced.

I had already felt like people took sides after the breakup with Murray (which is silly, but it sorta does feel that way), and most of them sided with Murray (even though our breakup was pretty drama-free and neither of us had wronged the other). I just feel like I have no one left. Claire, Andy, and my parents are pretty much the only real friends I have that actually want to hang out with me. And New York, of course, but he’s not here right now.

Aaaaaand he had to torture me on Sunday with a text that said, “[Name of eating establishment where LRC and NY frequently eat lunch on Sundays]?” as he does almost every Sunday (when he’s actually here, that is). It was his idea of a cute joke, because DUH, we can’t go eat there but haha isn’t it funny that I’m suggesting it? but given my emotional state it was just a reminder that no, he isn’t here, and no, we can’t go to lunch together. Or see each other. Or touch each other. Or kiss each other. At all.

Aaaaaand he may not be back for Valentine’s Day, either. He has a follow-up appointment with his doctor on Thursday. He hasn’t mentioned when he’s planning on coming back.

Aaaaaand what is the effing deal with all the BrownEyes sex dreams I’ve been having lately? I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH BROWNEYES. I don’t. What’s funny about them, though? In the dreams, we are doing more bickering than sexing. That is a pretty close representation of how things were when we were dating.

Aaaaaand I have a bag of Murray’s things that I’ve been meaning to give back to him for the past couple weeks that’s just rolling around in the back of my car, and if I give the stuff to him NOW, even though it’s in my way, I’ll look like a resentful bitch.

Things can only get better, right?

Because this shit has just got to stop. Like right now.

I’ll spare you any poeticism or whimsy I may have otherwise included in this post and just get right down to business.

I’m irritated.

With the New York situation.

I’m irritated that he’s not here.

That he was gone for a week, back for two days, and now gone for two weeks again. I’m irritated that the bulk of our contact with each other has consisted of random picture messages with little to no meaning. That he hasn’t been calling back when he said he would. That the frequency of his calls and texts is dwindling as the days pass.

That he could already be back but he’s chosen to wait a bit longer. That he’s apparently not as anxious to see me as I am to see him.

I’m irritated that I’m stuck here in Small Town USA hanging out with my cats and watching American Idol because all my other friends are too busy while he is in NYC with all his friends and plenty of shit to do.

I’m irritated that it seems I’ve been relegated to a secretary of sorts—checking his mail, watering his plants, shipping a package to him, and apparently serving as an Allergist Referral Service.

But you know what I am most irritated about? I’m irritated that I have no fucking clue how to deal with it.

He hasn’t wronged me or intentionally hurt my feelings. He’s really done nothing wrong. These things I’m doing for him? Are totally voluntary (except the Allergist Referral one—no, NY, I don’t know any good fucking allergists in this area, and you know damned well how to use Google). I’m being a good friend. I would expect nothing less from him if the tables were turned.

Then why do I feel like such a fucking pushover?

I love doing things for people. I’ve established this. Nothing breaks my heart more than disappointing someone. And if I needed help with something, I’m quite certain he’d have no problem offering it to me. I just haven’t asked him for help with anything.

I’m kinda curious to see how he’d react if I did ask for help with something. Now, don’t get me wrong. I hate games. But I just want to be sure I’m right about him—that he does want to do right by me and isn’t just using me for whatever mundane tasks he needs completed while he’s away.

Any ideas on something I should ask him to bring back for me, New Yorkers? Something unique to NYC? If he goes out of his way to get something for me that I have requested, then my doubts will be squashed. I figure it’s worth a shot.

But, I’m still fucking irritated.

I feel like my life is repeating itself. Like I’m walking around in some fucked up circle of Single Womanhood. It’s like effing Groundhog Day!

(And yes, I know today is Groundhog Day. This only intensifies my point.)

Meet a new guy.

Like him  a little.

Make out with him.

Like him a LOT.

(Those last two happen in rapid succession.)

Begin having doubts.

(This is where The Crazy enters.)

Cry.

Go right back to extreme like when guy does something incredibly sweet.

Float on air for a few weeks.

Start having doubts again.

Fabricate an elaborate scenario in which guy decides to leave and begin needlessly resenting the guy in preparation, so that if he DOES leave, damage to the heart will be minimal.

Yep, that’s me. Preparing for my heart to get curb stomped before they even get the opportunity to love me.

Okay, that last sentence sounded really morose. It’s not that bad. I just wish there were some way to train my mind not to play tricks on me. I did this with BE and now I’m doing it again with NY. It’s like I just know he’s going to hurt me, even though he’s done nothing in the past to indicate that he would. I know that getting hurt at some point is inevitable in every relationship, but I’m not talking about the Oh God He Hesitated Just A Smidge Too Long When I Asked If These Jeans Made My Ass Look Like A Double Wide Trailer Barreling Down The Highway hurt. I’m talking about the I’m About To Up And Leave Your Ass You Worthless Pile Of Woman Who Is Not Even Worth My Time hurt.

I know I’m worth a man’s time.

I cook. I praise. I give BJs.

I’m a great girlfriend. I know this.

But do they know it?

I feel like I put so much time and energy into showing a guy all that I have to offer, that it’s just taken for granted. I don’t even know if it’s my fault or their fault, or if I’m just completely making it up. This dating shiz just has me so confused that there are days I just want to throw my hands in the air, scream “ENOUGH ALREADY!” and bang my head on the desk, never to pick up the “habit” again.

But no, I keep pressing on.

(Sometimes I wish I weren’t so obsessed with the peen. It would save a lot of stress and worry.)

I feel like I’ve got this constant Push and Pull thing going with the men I date. I won’t allow myself to be vulnerable enough to be beaten down, but then I wonder why things aren’t happening for me.

I’m not allowing them to.

(For the record, things are fine with NY. Nothing has changed except for the fact that I have turned into Crazypants McGee. He’s still up in the Big Apple. I’m anticipating his arrival back home this weekend, but he hasn’t nailed anything down for certain yet. He’s got unfinished biz to take care of [that makes him sound a lot more diabolical than he really is] in NYC and he needs to get as much of it done as he can while he’s still there.)

Having said that, I’m keeping my options open. I’m not dating other guys, nor do I want to. But I’m not going to throw all my eggs on one basket and risk breaking all of them just yet.

Blargh. I don’t even know if I’ve really said what I needed to say here. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with the  picture I paint of my life on this blog. There’s just so much going on in Noggin de la LRC that I couldn’t possibly begin to show you what The Crazy is a-brewin’ up there.

But damn it, I’m gonna try.

And you’ll probably lose some sanity right there with me.

For that, I apologize.

But damn it feels good to have Partners In Crazy.

I’m going to take a break today from blogging about my love life to tell you a horror story from an old job of mine.

When I was 19 and a freshman in college, I was desperate for a part-time job. One day,  my friend’s mother notified me of a part-time clerical position at a Pennysaver-esque publication which would be the perfect fit for me.

Score!

So I  got the details, and went by the office (let’s call it the Pennysaver). I met the man in charge (I shall call him Miserly Misogynist—for reasons that will become apparent momentarily—or MM for short) and he hired me on the spot. Our conversation went something like this:

MM: “So, do you have typing skills?”
LRC: “Yes, I type 80 words per minute.”
MM: “Are you available Wednesday through Friday?”
LRC: “Yes.”
MM: “You’re hired.”
LRC: “Wow, thanks!”
MM: “What’s your name again?”

So began a three year long tenure of being overworked and underappreciated! I will say this, however: within the first month of typing classified advertisements, I saw the other workers doing ad layouts on their Macs and I said, “I want to do that!” And so, another graphic designer was borne into the workforce. Exactly what this world needs. Tee. So I do have that job to thank for the work experience that landed me my current job. Yay.

Anyhoodsterpoot, my boss turned out to be a huge jackass misogynist with absolutely no clue as to how to manage people. Surprise! Bet you didn’t see that one coming. He, however, was not the worst person I worked with. My co-worker, Skankface, was the bane of my existence.

Let me give you a little background on Skankface. This girl was very likely the white-trashiest person I have ever met. She came to work every day with greasy hair and was always at least 30 minutes late. When I started the job, she’d recently had a boob job gone awry and she’d had to have one of the implants taken out. After a few weeks, she was able to get the implant replaced, but a few months after that? She got bitten by a brown recluse spider (don’t click on that link unless you want nightmares for the rest of the week). ON THE BOOB. I don’t know if you know about brown recluse spiders, but when they bite you? THE VENOM EATS AWAY YOUR BODY TISSUE. So she had a hole in her boob. Had to get the implants taken out, again.

And instead of just accepting that sweater cows just weren’t in the cards for her?

SHE GOT MORE IMPLANTS.

Smart one.

Well, Skankface and I developed sort of a pseudo-friendship out of convenience because we worked so closely together, and every once in a while I’d even risk being seen in public with her (until that time she got in a drink-throwing fight with another group of girls, and vomited all over the steps outside a bar. I vowed never to take her anywhere again after that debacle).

When she got promoted to a sales position in our sister office, though? It quickly became clear who MM’s favorite was.

Hint: not me.

Sure, she landed lots of accounts. Brought in lots of money to the company. Her clients loved her.

Guess why?

She was sleeping with them!

Are you getting a clearer picture of her skankiness now?

Good. Because I honestly don’t think I could ever do it justice.

Sooo, anyway. Back to the story at hand. MM was allowing Skankface to squeak by at work, drifting in around 11am and sneaking out before 5, taking 2 hour lunch breaks. Just being a slackass in general. Doting on how great a job she was doing. But if I was five minutes late (which was RARE)? You’d better believe I’d never hear the end of it.

I wasn’t the only one who was angered by MM’s preferential treatment to Skankface. Especially since it was her (more than likely) STD-ridden vadge that was the cause of all her “success.” Several of us complained to MM, and, of course, in true MM fashion, he told Skankface that we’d been complaining about her.

(If we’d had an HR department, his ass would have been grass SO, SO many times. His practices were highly unethical. I would work late every Friday while MM and my other co-workers sat in the back room and drank beer.)

So Skankface began to resent all of us. Our hatred was mutual.

Then one day, I arrived at work to find some clutter on the desktop of my computer. There was a new image file I’d never seen on there before. Skankface used my computer on Monday mornings (she worked in my office one day a week, when I wasn’t there, since MM didn’t want to pay me more than he had to), so I knew the image had to be hers. I clicked on it to make sure it wasn’t anything I needed to keep on the computer.

It was.

A photo.

Of Skankface.

Naked, covered only by twenty dollar bills.

Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?

This was too good not to share, so I told my co-worker to come look before I deleted it. Well, instead of keeping it to herself, she called MM’s wife and told on Skankface. Of course, in true Skankface fashion, Skankface was taking a  “sick day,” so MM had to call her at home to reprimand her, only because MM’s wife made him. Not because he actually thought that, you know, having a naked picture of yourself on a co-worker’s computer was WRONG, or anything.

So guess what Skankface does?

Calls the office, asks to speak to me, and my co-worker takes a message because she knows that Skankface is going to be PISSED at me for “telling on her” (even though I didn’t, really), and her message to me is this.

“Tell [LRC] to call me on her lunch break because I am going to BEAT HER ASS.”

Yeah, THAT is going to happen. Let me go ahead and call you so we can make an appointment for that ass-kickin’. Shall I provide the brass knuckles?

I manage to get through the rest of the day fairly unscathed, until MM comes into the office around 4:45, right before the end of the day.

He asks us to all gather around, because he has an announcement to make.

“[Skankface] put in her two weeks’ notice today.”

Internal monologue of the rest of the office: “WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Instead of addressing the absolutely tasteless and inappropriate behavior from Skankface (um, hello? She put a naked picture of herself on my computer and then THREATENED ME WITH BODILY HARM), MM’s complaints were, “Sigh, well, with [Skankface] gone, we are going to lose [account], which is [$xxxx] per month, and [account], which is [$xxxx] a month . . .”

And while MM is going down his list of people Skankface was fucking accounts, I stopped him and said, “I’m sorry, are we not going to address how [Skankface] THREATENED me earlier?”

Then, and I will never forget the look on MM’s face when he asked me this, MM said, “Well, why did you have to say anything to anyone about it?”

Oh hell naw.

So I stood up from my stool, said “FUCK. THIS. SHIT,” and walked out.

MM (the coward that he is) had my co-worker call me, begging me to come back. I said, “No, and if he calls me, I’m going to tell him the same thing.”

So MM came to my HOUSE, BEGGING me to come back. Man was almost in tears. After all, I WAS a very big part of his company. I did all the layouts and ads.

I told him, in my firmest voice, and with my straightest face, “No, I will not come back to work for you. Not now, not ever.”

And that was one of my proudest moments. Finally saying enough was enough, and standing up to a 60 year-old man who had mistreated me for three years.

All seriousness aside, though? That shit was crazified, y’all! My coworkers still tell that story to this day, and now I can laugh about it.

Sooooo, after having read that long-ass story, don’t you want to delurk (since it’s National Delurking Day or whatever the flip it is) and tell me a work horror story of your own? Doesn’t have to be as lengthy as mine, obviously.

Oh, and I’m not proofreading this post. Bitch is already 1400 words long and it’s almost quittin’ time. So I apologize for anything that doesn’t make sense, which is likely this entire post.

When I was sixteen, I got a new car.

I know. I was one of THOSE kids. Although I may have BEEN spoiled, I didn’t ACT spoiled. But that’s not relevant to my story.

If you’ve ever been in a new car before, you know that the new car smell is one of the best smells ever. When your car loses that new car smell, it is a sad day.

For me, that day was the day I left my window down and one of my cats decided to defecate on my front seat.

Yeah, I know. What. The. Fuck.

I cleaned the poo as best I could, but I never did get that new car smell back. My car didn’t smell like poop, but it sure didn’t smell like new car, either.

That’s how I feel about my current situation with New York.

Some information has been revealed to me about NY’s past that I really, really didn’t want to hear. I understand the reason the person told me, but it just sucks to find this out. Things were going SO well, and now I just don’t know what to think.

It’s nothing TOO terrible. He didn’t rape a girl or anything, which is what my first thought was when my friend told me he’d heard some “horrible” things about NY.

I know, I’m so morbid.

Not that NY has ever done anything to exhibit tendencies toward rape, or anything. I mean, that’s just fucked up. But I think I think these things because I’d heard that about a guy I used to know several years back, so whenever someone says they have some bad news about a person’s past, that’s where my mind wanders.

I’m efffed up in the head. It’s okay. I know this.

So, even though I know the things NY did are in the past, haven’t we all done things we wish we could take back? Haven’t we all had a phase in our lives when our behavior was less than stellar?

While I’m not excusing NY’s past behavior, I do think he’s changed since then. He certainly hasn’t exhibited any behavior that would insinuate he’s still the same as he was in wilder times.

But I feel like someone shat on my front seat. That “new car smell” isn’t there anymore.

And while I know the new car smell doesn’t last forever, it sucks when it’s gone prematurely.

Again, with the title, I’m not blaming the person who told me these things for “shitting on my front seat,” because it’s not his fault. He was only passing along information he thought would be relevant to my situation so that I wouldn’t get hurt later on.

I was with NY earlier today, after I had heard the unfortunate details of his icky past, and we had a good time as usual, but it’s not the same.

I want to forget and just move on, but I just can’t help but feel a little down and out about the whole situation.

Tell me freaders, what would you do if, from a third party, you found out a deep, dark secret from your significant other’s past that could potentially impact your relationship as it is in the present?

Because right now I just don’t know how to feel. I guess “duped” could sum it up. Definitely “confused” as well.

Sigh.

The title isn’t fair. I don’t know anything about mongols (except aren’t a lot of people related to Ghengis Khan… and wasn’t he a mongol?) or lepers (except for that episode of x-files with the leper colony); I am probably using these words in incorrect and insensitive ways. Here is what I mean to say, in duller terms: Christmas makes me feel disgusting, alone, and malformed in new, (but frighteningly familiar) ways every year. Christmas makes me hate myself, and yet, I love the holiday and start daydreaming about reindeer and elves when wal-mart puts their decorations up (midnight, november 1st).

There are so many parts of this season that I love. I can listen to Christmas-themed songs ten times longer without going crazy than anyone else I know. I know every word to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ . I can sing four different parts of the Hallelujah Chorus (not in any recognizable key, but whatever). I watch the Charlie Brown Christmas Special every season and the part where Linus stops everything and recites from the bible for behold, i bring you tidings of great joy makes me cry every year (even this year when I watched it by myself in three parts on youtube). I want to rub myself in pine-scented everything. I like thinking about peace on earth and goodwill toward men and frankincense and myrrh. I am perpetually dreaming of a white Christmas just like the ones I used to know. I think red and green go great together. I own a pair of socks with santa clauses on them that say ‘I believe’ (part of my collection of christmas themed socks that I wear all year long). I actually baked a buche de noel yesterday.

What’s my point?

I’m jewish. I reek of monotheism. My relationship to the items listed above is tenuous and largely fucked up. I hate that I love these things. I hate that there are not Chanuky equivalents. It is December 26th; there are a lot of things I hate right now.

It is so hard to think about my experience in the context of other non-christian folks, because it is a complete cliche, it is old hat. The jew who loves christmas, the jew with the very complicated relationship to christmas, the jew who is easily stirred into fiery diatribes about the shittiness and/or greatness of this time of year. It is so hard to know that there is this archetype of the self-hating jew. It is not exactly comforting to know that there are so many people that feel exactly the same way that I do about your big bad holiday, and it is hard to sit here and type this and know that if I was a really good writer, I would figure out what makes my feelings unique or additive to the larger conversation of christianty and religion and blah blah blah or at LEAST interesting to read about.

In some ways I think it was a lot easier to be fourteen and certain that my feelings (regarding life and religion, but mostly second base) were special and new and something NO ONE ELSE HAD EVER FELT BEFORE AS I WAS FEELING THEM AT THAT VERY MINUTE. The originality of my thoughts weighed heavily on my tiny, tiny little soul. If only I opened my mouth and spoke of my woes, my listeners would turn to dust, they would be so profoundly moved. This made me sad.

How many autobiographies have I read by famouser folks who write about the days they discovered how much they actually hated parts of themselves? Folks who went to church and ate communion wafers and got saved instead of being some other religion or no religion at all. The easiest parallel to draw is stories of famouser black folks who liked things that white girls liked, dressed like white girls, called each other the n word, et cet er uh. How many times have I heard this story? I can turn my head forty five degrees to the right and look at the top row of books in my bookshelf and see half a dozen books about this kind of relationship to oneself.

The part where the the protagonist slowly (or not slowly) realizes that their whole sense of self is fucked up, that everything they know about themselves and the world is even more fucked up, and that they have no idea how to untangle any of this shit. Self-hatred! I know this story! I am this story! So many people are this story!

I know these things about myself and I have done the triage and the reading and the thinking and the singing and all the other gerunds that go into being strong and proud about who i am. And yet, I wind up here on december 26th every year in the same place, like christmas is my psycho-ex-girlfriend who just rolled in through town with the sole purpose of undermining my whole sense of self and place (not that i have an ex like this; I don’t. I have five exes, all of whom are generally silent and far away–for better or worse– except for one, who is just lovely and thinks my self is great. however, it seems that lots of my friends have crazy exes who occasionally pop up for no other reason than to ruin their shit).

I am so proud to be jewish so much of the time, but it is so hard to sustain these feelings all the time. Today I was at massage therapy (I get free massage therapy now to help my back heal from donating bone marrow) and my massage therapist (his name is colin, he is actually also my neighbor, and he makes me feel very glad about being alternatively sexualized, because if i liked the menz i would be extremely hot and bothered in his presence) and I were doing active stretching. I was laying down on a pad on the floor and he held my left foot in his hands as he stood above me, and he said push against me. And then he began to move my leg in different ways and I was supposed to resist the entire time. Over and over again I would lose track of pushing, I was working so hard on breathing or holding my hips just right or trying to deal with the fact that I am in pain and there is a strange man I just met holding my foot. And he would say keep pushing, keep resisting, and then I would remember “oh yeah” and I would totally give it to him for a good minute, digging my heel into his palms, feeling the stretch go deeper and harder into my scar tissue that we’re working on breaking up, but I would drift away again in all that concentrating, and then I would find him reminding me yet again to push against him. This is what it is like to be proud about being jewish, especially when you have so many other things to concentrate on loving at the same time.

Nobody thinks about Jews during easter. Folks are too busy buying bonnets and eating deviled eggs to care about what the Jews are doing with themselves during the day. It also helps that it is Sunday, and most things are closed anyway, because that’s the day Christians decided to celebrate not doing anything. Christians seem to think Easter is kind of crazy anyway. Nobody wants to know if I have any plans for Easter.

Everyone wants to know what Jews are up to on Christmas. What are you doing? Are you going anywhere? Will you be with your family? Will you be alone? Do you give gifts? When is Chanuka? How do you spell Chanuka? Will you go out for Chinese food and go to the movies? You jews are so funny. So we made a tradition out of obstinately venturing out of our homes and into the cold, suburban night to the only businesses that were open on your holiday. This kind of nonchalant, yet flamboyant defiance is one of the many features of Jewish culture that warms my ever-tepid heart. You aren’t doing anything? I wish you didn’t have to be alone. Do you want to come to church or christmas dinner with my family? See you next year.

All year long I go to Shabbat (okay, sometimes I go to shabbat) and I sing all the prayers and listen to the sermon and I like it. I eat foods with yiddish names that I am proud to make and share with my friends. I find meaning and community and myself in being Jewish, and I like it that way. But I can’t find a way to answer these questions and face this holiday with poise and dignity.

There is the wanting. The coveting of a tree, lights, presents, red and green things. Family. I want to be included in plans, traditions. I want to be at home with my parents and my brother and my sister. There is the learning. Memorizing song after song, all of the stories, all of the different ways we can extrapolate the meanings of your holiday. You don’t know Dominic the Christmas Donkey? Let me play it for you. There is the feeling of something missing, and the defiance of insisting that there should not be. There is the sting of my ‘Happy Chanuka’ to your jolly Merry Christmas and the laughter that follows because you think I am being pc or ironic. There is the shame in thinking that I am perpetually making a big deal out of nothing, that I am punching the air, that nothing is wrong, that I am more than a man/christian hating fag– I hate joy and fun and good cheer and cannot see the forest for the christmas trees. Whatever that means.

Christmas is so full of love, and people appreciating things like their families and their good fortune if they have it, and there is so much potential in this holiday, it is so hard not to love it. It is so difficult to want and not want, to not know if my desires are based in something as silly as another religion’s one holiday or if they are real or true or something as comforting as objective reality. How can I not love this? How can I not want this? Who am I without this?

Sometimes I think about what it is like to be a jew in a place like israel at christmastime. I have no idea what it is like over there; I’ve never been. Do they think about christmas? Do folks walk down the street, looking at the chanukiyot blazing in window after window, and feel like something has been omitted? I cannot even begin to imagine what this is like. This is the essence of religious privilege. Self-loathing, no-fun, over-analyzing, extra-complainy, bitchy over privileged first world middle class white girl needs something to base an identity around needs some kind of struggle in order to feel something, yes, yes, and yes. happy new year.

I don’t get it, peeps.

(I have this awful habit of adopting a word or phrase and abusing it terribly for weeks, and in extreme cases, even months. I used to have the compulsion to say “FYI” all the time, and Murray hated it. Which makes me sorta love the fact that New York says it frequently. Apparently, “peeps” is my “new word.”)

Ahem.

As I was saying. I don’t get it, peeps.

I still haven’t closed the deal with New York. And it’s seriously starting to weigh on me. Not in the I NEED SEX LIKE RIGHT NOW, KTHX way that it was at first. Now it’s more of an OH MY GOD I CAN’T POSSIBLY BE SEXUALLY ATTRACTIVE AT ALL THAT IS THE ONLY EXPLANATION, PERIOD way.

NY invited me to dinner last night, and we had a fantastic time. We ordered various forms of red meat (a bloody sirloin for me and a hamburger steak for him) and we drank dark beer. Afterward, he said he had to go to the grocery store to grab some vanilla soy milk (is it strange that I find it adorable that he drinks vanilla soy milk?), but he would stop by my house later if that was okay.

Um, yeah. That is TOTALLY okay with me, I thought. Although my actual answer was more like, “Sure, that sounds good.”

So I went home. Made up my bed (WISHFUL THINKING). Took two shots of rum so I’d have the courage to jump on him later in the evening. My heart was about to beat out of my chest in anticipation (or, it could have been the rum). Once he got there, we sat on the couch, turned on some random movie, and after a few minutes, I finally made my move.

I leaned over and kissed him, gently but seductively. He allowed the kiss to continue for about, oh, five seconds.

Huh.

All right then. Fine.

So we went back to watching crappy TV. The minutes ticked by like hours.

Then, again, I leaned over and began working my magic.

Again, he let it last about five seconds before pulling away.

At this point, I was thoroughly confused.

Trying not to let on what I was doing, I went into the kitchen and took another sip of rum in an attempt to gain a bit more confidence, and also, a little out of frustration. I couldn’t make sense of the scenario, and it was irritating me.

I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch with him again. More minutes passed. Time was running out before he would inevitably retreat to his quarters across town. I had to try one more time.

So I kissed him.

And this time?

He didn’t even let me slip him the tongue.

Fucking. Shit.

What is wrong with me? In the words of Cher Horowitz, “Did I stumble into some bad lighting?” I don’t get it. He obviously is into me. I must not have frightened him too badly last night because I have gotten an e-mail and a text from him today. I hate to admit this, but after he left, I cried. My self-esteem was shot for the night.

My mood has improved vastly as the day has progressed, but this morning? You would have thought someone had just told me that caffeine was now illegal.

I am still quite mystified, though. I’m not the hottest chick on the planet, but damn it, I’m young and cute and I have a hot bod. Why would NY not want to bed me?

I don’t know what my next approach is going to be. I feel like I reached for the cookie jar and my wrist got slapped. And now I don’t even want to think about cookies anymore.

I have to be at work in exactly five minutes. It is 6:50 am. I will be late. I am also writing this from a University computer whose ‘enter’ key doesn’t work. Whatever. Two nights ago while at a post-Salon of Shame pommes frites binge with a friend, I ran into a woman I had a one night stand with sometime this spring or summer. I forget. Not the point. Friend at I happened to be at Cafe Presse, where the tables are six inches apart, and they literally sat me almost on top of Eleanor, who I literally had to fake it to get away from six months prior. We laughed, she soon left with her ugly man date, and I proceeded to gorge on my fries, not thinking of it until yesterday, when I ran into THREE MORE people I never, ever wanted to see in public. 1. A former student of mine from the job skills training program I worked for last year. A reminder: I am currently a barista on a college campus. I realized she was my student as I was making her a chai latte. Who needs job skills now, bitch, was the general feeling I got from her. 2. The mother of the little boy I nanny ran into me while I was making drinks roughly three hours later. She looked shocked and embarassed. And yet, I was the one in the apron. I guess this is what happens when you are a fancy pants lawyer? 3. None of this really matters, because I took Nicky, the boy I nanny for, out to dinner last night. We went to a pizza place in Wallingford that I like that gives kids lots of things to play with (including pizza dough! Five year old heaven is a restaurant with pizza dough!), but I won’t be going back there because MY THERAPIST WAS OUR WAITRESS. I would be inclined to type ‘apocalyptic fail’ here if I could do so without thinking a kitten somewhere wasn’t having its ears ripped off, but I can’t, so I won’t. It was awk to the ward. I was hot and bothered and not in the good way. No literary devices. No run-ons. No jokes. I have to go to work. WILL THE UNIVERSE PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE?

i discovered recently that a lot of the stomach problems i have are from one very common issue – i can’t hang with the dairy. what a crock of shit. dairy products are obviously the best products, and most of the stuff they have in place of it is just a pale imitation. cheese? are you kidding me? fucking cheese is so good. i had to watch jeff eat an entire block of cheese in front of me the other day. now, that is kind of weird, but that doesn’t mean i wouldn’t like the option of doing so. but, out of courtesy to my body and not wanting to make it hate me, i’m gonna try to stay away from it and see if it makes a huge difference (and i bet it will). oh well, at least i went out with a bang last night and had an ungodly amount of pizza. best pizza i’ve ever had too.

• I was running late for work this morning, so instead of walking to the train, I had to catch the bus so as not to be late to the office. I loved it:
• I made it to the train station in a knick of time to catch the Red Line to Downtown, only so that a 16 minute trip could take 40.
• I was 20 minutes late to work because of the delay. I don’t think my boss believed me. I don’t think I care.
• My editor informed me that approximately 4 hours of writing/work that I rushed to complete Friday afternoon is “no longer needed for print.”
• As a result, the work I DIDN’T get to on Friday is suddenly “urgent.”
• It snowed in the Midwest over the weekend. That doesn’t bode well for my future.
• It’s like 80 degrees in my office. I’m wondering why God hates me. I think it’s because I cheese-balled a baby Jesus in 2005.
• Gas has dropped to below $3 in some places in L.A. It better freaking stay that way for our drive to the Midwesty-West, come November.
• Boyfriend and I stayed at our friends mansion in La Canada Friday night. I cooked pesto-filled ravioli with garlic butter sauce for dinner in their ginormous kitchen and I actually, dare I say, enjoyed it. I don’t know who I am anymore.
• Told Boyfriend I would learn to cook if he gives me a massive kitchen. Why did I do that??
• Static Monkey tagged a super old school picture of me in her blog post today. I briefly considered calling off our nearly 13 year friendship.
• My best friend left for Seattle yesterday, from Wisconsin. It’s the first leg of her year-long move to Russia. I’m excited for her, but mostly sad for me. I know I’m selfish, but THAT BITCH! As long as she doesn’t get eaten by any tigers and I can forgive her.
  
• Last night I dreamed that my Mom moved to Russia to take care of my best friend. I woke up almost in tears.
  
• http://www.realclearpolitics.com/epolls/maps/obama_vs_mccain/
• Follow me on Twitter. All the cool kids are doing it.
• Peace, yo.